Читать книгу Sanctuary Island - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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AT the wheel of her red-winged two-seater Elizabeth could never remain for long in the doldrums, and by the time she reached Dilchester, after her fifty-mile drive with the wind-screen open so that the wind buffeted her face and roared in her ears, the last shreds of her depression had been blown away.

After all, she told herself, as she ran the car into the garage, she must not lose her sense of humour. There really was something intensely humorous in the idea of her playing the great lady among the local celebrities, paying homage to the memory of a woman for whom she didn't care a snap of the fingers, listening with a solemn face to the flowery oration which Richard had so carefully prepared.

Richard always prepared his speeches with the utmost care, as a rule learning them by heart and practising them in the seclusion of his study. She had never heard him make a speech which he had not begun with a plea for the indulgence of his audience for any shortcomings, a lament that he was a very poor speaker, and a subtly conveyed suggestion that he had had no time for preparation and was speaking extempore—a ruse which rarely failed to elicit from the speaker who followed him a reference to his modesty and graceful compliment to his oratorical powers. But probably Richard was not the only man to indulge in that little deception, and she mustn't be catty.

During the drive home she had made up her mind that she would have nothing to do with cattiness. She would be very nice to Richard in future, because it really wasn't his fault that life had played a swindling trick on her, and she would certainly be doing the same on Richard if she failed to keep her part of the bargain and play the role of Dilchester's leading lady as he was entitled to expect her to play it.

He would, she supposed, have a few words to say about her lack of consideration in not returning home on Monday; but she was fully determined, as she went along the hall towards his study, that she would not allow him to irritate her. Several times lately she had only just stopped herself on the edge of an angry outburst, and there was nothing to be gained by making a scene. Besides, what was the use of going into the Holy of Holies if, when she came out into the world again, the first little trial of her patience swept away all the serenity she had gained there?

She was smiling as she went into the room, but as her husband, seated at his desk, glanced up at her and she saw the resentment in his eyes and the grim line of his mouth, it was all she could do to continue smiling. It seemed that a wave of hostility met her as she crossed towards the desk, and she felt that she was forcing her way through an atmosphere that was heavy with displeasure.

Pulling off her motoring gauntlets, she tossed them on to a chair.

"Well, here we are again, Richard."

He sat for some moments, his elbows resting on the desk and his hands clasped, regarding her intently.

"So you have at last condescended to return to your home, Elizabeth."

She nodded, still managing to smile.

"In plenty of time for lunch, Richard, as I promised. It was a marvellous drive back, and I had a glorious time on the island."

"I don't doubt that in the least. But it is more than time for you to realize that having glorious times is not the only thing in life, or even the most important thing, particularly when you have them at the cost of someone else's peace of mind and at the expense of your duties at home. As I told you on the telephone, I was extremely worried when you failed to come home on Monday as you had arranged to do, and I have not the least doubt that if I had not telegraphed you would not have returned in time for today's engagement."

"I'm glad you did wire, Richard, because I'm afraid I had forgotten. As a matter of fact, I don't think I realized that you'd want me at the unveiling ceremony. Still, here I am, so why worry?"

"I'm afraid, Elizabeth, that we can't dismiss the matter quite as lightly as that. True, you have returned in time for this afternoon's ceremony—after being reminded by me, and after ignoring my expressed wish that you should return yesterday—but you have still been guilty of a very grave dereliction of duty."

Elizabeth felt that her patience was ebbing fast. "What other crime have I committed?"

"Have you forgotten that today is Dilchester's flag day in aid of the Anna Rita Rymer cot, and that you are supposed to be in charge of it? Evidently you have forgotten, or you would hardly, I hope, have absented yourself—"

"Oh, Richard, there's no need to be so pompous about it and lecture me as if I were a naughty schoolgirl. I did all I undertook to do. I said from the very beginning that I wouldn't collect in the street, and mother agreed to look after that part of the business for me. She loves that sort of thing, and I hate it, and she'll do it far better than I should, anyway. I organized the whole thing and saw that everything was in order before I went away, and that was all I undertook to do. You're making an absurd fuss over nothing."

"If it means nothing to you," replied Anson, "it is more than time that you realized your mistake. Has it occurred to you, Elizabeth, that today's ceremony, which you did not propose to attend, means a very great deal to me? Apart from the prominent part I have played in the erection of the memorial, Anna Rita Rymer was my sister—"

"And has it occurred to you, Richard," interrupted Elizabeth impatiently, "that I might be just a little weary of Anna Rita Rymer? Since I came to Dilchester scarcely a day has passed when I haven't had Anna Rita Rymer stuffed down my throat."

"If that is the case, I can only say that it is a very great pity you have not seen fit to model your conduct a little more closely on hers."

"Oh, I know," sighed Elizabeth. "A paragon of all the virtues, wasn't she? I ought to know; I've heard it often enough. Anna Rita Rymer—the pure, noble, devout, self-sacrificing martyr. But I'm not cut out to be a martyr, and I'd hate to be the smug sort of prig which you make out Anna Rita Rymer to have been."

"You have lost your temper, Elizabeth, and don't realize what you're saying."

"I realize perfectly what I'm saying," she replied angrily. "I'm saying what I've longed to say ever since I came to Dilchester and was forced to swallow doses of this woman every day of my life. Everything I do is compared with what you imagine Anna Rita Rymer would have done. Because I drive a car which she wouldn't have driven, you disapprove of my car. If I wear a dress which isn't the frumpy sort of thing she would have worn, then it's flashy and vulgar and not the sort of thing a lady should wear. Anna Rita Rymer never danced the tango or drank cocktails or smoked cigarettes or went to a night-club or used lip-stick, so it isn't right for me to do any of these things."

"You're talking the most outrageous rubbish, Elizabeth—"

"It may be outrageous. Anything would seem outrageous to you if it knocked a hole in the halo of Anna Rita Rymer. But it's not rubbish. It's Anna Rita Rymer this and Anna Rita Rymer that until I'm sick to death of the sound of her name. I don't want to be like her. I don't intend to model myself on her. I've not the slightest desire to turn myself into the dull, soured, self-righteous sort of prig she must have been. Damn Anna Rita Rymer!"

"I'm trying very hard not to lose my temper with you, Elizabeth—"

"Oh, I'm sure you are, Richard. As the brother of Anna Rita Rymer you could hardly do otherwise, could you? She was never known to say a hasty word to anyone. She was always overflowing with loving-kindness—even to the bandits who murdered her. You can't wonder they killed her, can you? From all I've heard of her she'd drive any self-respecting bandit to murder."

Anson sprang to his feet.

"Elizabeth! I absolutely forbid you to continue this—this—"

"Blasphemy? Oh, very well; I apologize. I shouldn't have said that. But you know now how I feel about it all. And now I've started I may as well finish. Frankly, Richard, it's no use trying to make me feel about Anna Rita Rymer as you pretend to feel. Yes, I mean 'pretend'. All this veneration and adoration and holding her up as an example of what a woman should be—it isn't genuine. It can't be. You know perfectly well that if I'd been like Anna Rita Rymer you'd never have wanted to marry me. No man would. I dare say a figure like a bolster may help a woman to heaven, but I'd much prefer to have my own figure and risk it."

"Elizabeth!"

But she was too angry to heed him now.

"And all this memorial business," she went on. "You don't really expect me not to see through that, do you? It's terribly transparent—just about as crude a bit of publicity as I've heard of, much more suitable for Hollywood than Dilchester. Richard Anson is the brother of Anna Rita Rymer, and Richard Anson is terribly anxious to be Sir Richard Anson, M.P., so he pays for a memorial to her, unveils it himself, and hopes that his prospective constituents will take the halo off Anna Rita Rymer's head and put it on his. You never know, Richard; it may turn into a coronet some day."

Anson's hands were clenched; his face was white with anger.

"You've said quite enough, Elizabeth," he said. "And now listen to me. You have behaved like a child and I propose to treat you like a child."

She gave a shrug. She was quite calm again now. "Haven't you always done that?"

"I have always done my best," he answered, rather pompously, "to treat you as a husband should treat his wife. I have shown you every consideration, given way to you, and often against my better judgment, on almost every occasion, hoping that in return you would show some sort of appreciation of your duties as my wife. But you have done nothing of the sort."

"When have I ever failed you, Richard?"

"You failed me this morning, when you neglected to take your proper place in charge of the collection for the Anna Rita Rymer cot fund. You failed me yesterday, when you did not return home as I told you to. If I had not reminded you, you would have failed me again this afternoon. It is quite obvious that when you go away to your bungalow you cannot be trusted to return home when you should return, and in that case you leave me no choice in the matter. In future you will not go to the island at all."

She glanced at him quickly, and for some moments her eyes met his steadily. Then she slowly shook her head.

"No, Richard; you can't do that."

"I'm telling you, Elizabeth, that I forbid you to go to the island again, and I don't propose to enter into an argument about it."

Again she shook her head.

"No," she repeated. "You can do a good many things, but that's one thing you can't do."

"I warn you that if you persist in refusing to obey me it may come to the point where you will have to choose between the island and this house."

Her eyes met his without wavering.

"If it ever comes to that point," she said. "I shall certainly choose the island."

He strode round the desk and grasped her arm roughly. "So that's it, is it?" he exclaimed furiously. "You'd choose the island, would you? I guessed as much. I've suspected it for a long time. You thought I believed you, didn't you? You thought I'd swallowed your story. You thought I was fool enough to believe that any woman would want to go off and shut herself up on a twopenny-ha'penny little island with a batch of sea-gulls. But I didn't believe you. I knew all the time that you were lying."

She wrenched her arm free.

"Richard—how dare you!"

"Lying!" he repeated. "Lying all the time and thinking I didn't know it, laughing at me behind my back for being fool enough not to know why you went to your island."

"You know very well why I went, Richard."

"I know what you told me: you went to play your piano and be alone. Alone! Do you think any man in his senses would believe that?"

She stepped back from him and stood staring at him, wide-eyed, bewildered, horrified.

"Richard—what are you suggesting?"

"You don't know? Very well, then I'll tell you. I'm suggesting that you didn't go to be alone, that you went there to meet your lover, to play the faithless wife, the wanton—"

"Richard—for God's sake stop I You must be mad! You don't know what you're saying!"

Again he gripped her arm.

"Who is he?" he demanded. "You're going to tell me who he is—"

Again she wrenched her arm free and stepped back from him, leaning against the edge of the desk. She was very pale and her hands were trembling, but her voice was calm and steady.

"You've said an abominable thing, Richard—made a foul accusation which you must know in your heart isn't true."

Anson had shed all semblance of self-control. His lips were working, his hands shaking.

"I know it is true!" he exclaimed. "I've known all along that you were lying and deceiving me. I had only to see your face when you came back to know that you'd been to meet your lover. You can smile when you've been to your island, can't you? But your smiles are too precious to be wasted on your husband. It isn't worth while to be pleasant and agreeable when you're merely in your own home. No! You keep all that for when you're playing the prostitute— "

"Richard"—she stopped abruptly and made a little gesture of helplessness. "We shall do no good like this," she said. "You don't realize what you're saying—you can't—and we shall only make matters worse. Sooner or later we shall have a good deal to say to each other, but it's useless trying to say it now."

Her quiet tone calmed him a little.

"I don't wonder that you prefer not to talk about it. But don't imagine that I don't mean what I say—I mean every word of it. You're going to your island no more—that's final. You can sell the place—burn it down. I was a fool ever to have consented to your having it. I should have known that no woman would want to go off to an island for days on end to be alone."

Elizabeth's hands were moving restlessly, sliding along the edge of the desk against which she was leaning.

"If you really believe all you've been saying, Richard," 'he said, "you have your remedy."

He had crossed to the french windows and was standing with his back towards her, staring out into the garden; but as she spoke he suddenly turned and faced her again. "You mean divorce you?"

"That's the usual remedy, isn't it?"

"So it may be, but you're not going to escape your responsibilities quite as easily as that, Elizabeth. You made a bargain—a very good one from your point of view—and I intend to see that you keep it. I've kept my part of it, and if you're counting on my letting you off your part you're mistaken. Divorce would suit you splendidly, wouldn't it?"

"Until this moment I had never even thought of it, but I'm beginning to think it might be the best thing for both of us."

"I don't doubt it. And of course your lover agrees with you. It might suit your book, but it wouldn't suit mine. You've everything to gain by it, and I've everything to lose."

She could not refrain from smiling slightly.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she said. "People don't pay so much attention to that sort of thing nowadays. It might postpone your knighthood for a little while, but I don't suppose it would deprive you of your title for long."

She had hit the mark, and he turned away from her again.

"And there's no reason," she went on, "why it should keep you out of Parliament. There isn't likely to be an election just yet, and people soon forget. And even if they don't forget, they'll only think you were unlucky enough to have married an abandoned woman. I shall get the blame—not you. No one would believe anything against Richard Anson, the brother of Anna Rita Rymer. Divorce, after all, might be the simplest way out of the situation."

"You're not getting your divorce," he said curtly. "I've no intention of exhibiting myself to the world as the deluded husband. You're going to give up your island and stay at home and do your duty as my wife. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that is my decision, and I've no more to say about it."

Elizabeth sighed.

"Very well, Richard. You've said more than enough already, and I've said everything there's any need for me to say."

"I notice you haven't denied it."

She shook-her head.

"No. You could hardly expect me to do that. But there's nothing more to be said, Richard, until you choose to apologize."

She stood upright, and, as she did so, her right hand touched a paper on the desk and it fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, saw that it was a telegraph form, and got a glimpse of a single word which made her catch her breath sharply. She straightened herself, hesitated a moment and sent a quick glance at her husband as he stood gazing out of the window. Then, almost against her will, her gaze was drawn back to the telegram. It was addressed to her husband, and ran as follows:

MANY THANKS. ARRIVING DILCHESTER FOUR-THIRTY TODAY HACKETT.

For some moments she stood staring at the slip of paper, seeing the words through a blurring haze. Hackett! But it couldn't be. Richard had never heard of John. She was imagining things. John wasn't the only Hackett in the world, and Dilchester Lodge was the last place to which he would be likely to come. But something told her that she was not imagining things, and as she stood there with the telegram in her hand, she was conscious of the thudding of her heart and a strange, strained feeling in her throat.

"Richard."

"Well?"

"This—this telegram."

He glanced at her over his shoulder.

"This telegram," she repeated.

Turning, he crossed to where she was standing, took the telegram from her hand and glanced at it.

"Another wifely duty for you to perform, Elizabeth," he said. "But perhaps, as John Hackett is quite an attractive young man, you may condescend to display a little interest and play the hostess with some show of cheerfulness."

"John Hackett?"

He nodded.

"He's the nephew of Mark Doran, and as I have very special reasons for wishing to please Doran, I hope you will make an effort to be as charming as possible to his nephew while he is a guest in my house."

"John Hackett is coming here?"

"Just for a brief visit. He's been abroad, I gather, and is off again shortly, and Doran rang me up and asked me if I'd give him a few days in the country before he sails. As you were not here, I couldn't consult you, and in any case, as I've told you, I couldn't afford to risk offending Doran. I've arranged for the car to meet him at four-thirty."

She gazed at him for some moments in silence, incapable of uttering a word. Then:

"But he can't come, Richard. I can't have him here. It's—it's most inconvenient."

"For once in your life, Elizabeth, I must ask you to study my convenience in preference to your own."

"But, Richard, I'd much rather not—"

He made a gesture of impatience.

"I don't know what's the matter with you this morning, Elizabeth. You seem determined to make yourself as difficult as you possibly can. What conceivable objection is there to young Hackett coming down here for a few days? You're being childish and ridiculous. Just because I've asked you to make an effort to give him a good time, you start raising objections."

"Oh, it's not that, Richard. You know that in the ordinary way I love having people down here, but just at the moment... Oh, I don't know. There's been so much to do lately and I think I'm tired. I don't feel like entertaining. Couldn't we put him off? He won't be leaving London until after two, and you could send him a wire—"

"I shall do nothing of the sort. I have made the arrangement and I don't propose to alter it because you happen to feel less inclined than usual to carry out my wishes." He turned from her and strode to the door. "Hackett will be here at tea-time, and I shall expect you to make yourself agreeable to him." He went from the room, closing the door noisily behind him.

Elizabeth remained where she was, gazing at the telegram in her hand, trying to steady the blurred words that lurched and swayed before her eyes, so that she could read them again. John—coming here—now!